Does This Smell Like Chloroform To You?
by cumbersmaug
Summary: John's abducted and wakes up in a strange bed, naked, in what looks like an abandoned hospital. Mental hospital. Jim, Sherlock/John.  Warning: Underlying rape theme at a part of the story.
1. Chapter 1: The Interesting Soldier

_"Does this smell like chloroform to you?"_

The voice was muffled and far away. It almost sounded... playful?

John woke up to a numb, bruised body and a battering headache. He was confused - he had no memory of the last... He couldn't really say. He didn't know where he was, or for how long he'd been there. It was when the cold draught ran across his body that he realized that he was naked. _Naked?_

He opened his eyes. He was clearly lying on some sort of bed, on his stomach. Right now he could only see a white pillow in front of him, his neck hurt too much for him to even consider to lift his head. He stayed like this for a couple of seconds to simply gather some willpower. His nose started to itch, it was first then he discovered that he wasn't able to move his hands. He forced himself to lift his head, ignoring the pain, to discover that his hands were secured with belts. _Belts?_ John knew instantly what this was. It was a bed with limb restraints, sometimes used in psychiatric treatment to prevent patients from hurting themselves. He looked around. He was in a small room, bright colours. There was a barred window high up on the wall - he could spot a couple of small cracks in it from where he was lying. The room was very dusty, and apart from the bed, there was no other furnishing. It became extremely clear to him that this wasn't actually a mental hospital, even though it was meant to look like one for some reason. Mental patients don't get buckled into a bed naked, and then stuffed into a dusty room. John thought with bittersweet sarcasm that it at least was some kind of relief that he now knew that he wasn't just waking up from some sort of psychosis. Although, this didn't frighten him. He hadn't time to be afraid. Now he needed to figure out how to get out of this bed. He tryingly twisted and turned his arm, hoping for it to slide out from the restraints. He was careful, he knew that if he pulled his arm too hard, it would only become swollen, if that happened he wouldn't be able to get his hand out at all. That's when he heard someone whistling, a happy tune, from another room. He could hear a door open behind him.

"_Oh, if you feel like loving me, if you've got the notion, I second that emotion~"_ the singing stopped. "Isn't it tiresome, Johnny-boy, when you get a song totally stuck in your head?"

_Jim_. John didn't answer. Of course it had to be Jim.

Jim giggle-snorted, and walked around the bed, to place himself in front of John. "Don't you like my new outfit for the occasion? Look at my nurse badge, it even says 'Nurse Moriarty', isn't that cute?" Jim chuckled and looked at John with excitement - he was dressed in classic, blue hospital scrubs.

The scrubs had a bulge where John didn't want them to have a bulge. John prayed for it to be a gun or something similar. He had grown very tired of Jim's games. "I am flattered you set aside so much time for me Jim, but this is starting to grow a little _tiresome_..." John licked his lips.

Jim acted dramatically surprised. "Oh! Johnny!" he paused, "Is that really how to treat an old friend?" Jim sighed, pretending to be hurt. "I even shaved my legs for you!"

John didn't express any emotion. He looked at Jim with calm eyes. "Tell me, why are you doing this, again?"

Jim sat down on the side of the bed, by John's upper body. John didn't like having the bulge even closer. Jim inhaled slowly before opening his mouth. "I don't see why I should tell you at all, but I kind of want to. Oh, You know me. Changeable." Jim chuckled and got up from the bed again. His hand stirred around down in one of his pockets, before pulling out a small tube. He started walking around the bed as he talked slowly, "Do you know, Johnny-boy, what kids sometimes do when someone else has got a toy that they really crave for? Do you?"

Jim disappeared behind John where he couldn't see him. Jim became silent, John could hear him opening the tube. A few, long, tense seconds later he could feel a great amount of cold, thick liquid being applied onto his bum, between his buttocks. Shivers went through John's body. He pressed his eyelids forcefully together. He heard a pleased sigh behind him.

"They break it."


	2. Chapter 2: The Chase

Sherlock walked restlessly back and forth in circles in the living room of 221B Baker Street. Something was wrong. He could sense it.

He pulled the curtains aside and looked through the window. John should've been there half an hour ago. Of course people sometimes are late, but Sherlock knew every little quirk and habit of John. John always texted when something unexpected happened. Always. If he'd lost his fingers, he would've gotten someone else to text for him. Sherlock snorted. John left the flat only an hour ago to go for a walk, and pick up some groceries on his way back.

Sherlock walked across the living room to get his coat. He couldn't just stand here anymore. He knew exactly where John used to go when he went for a walk, and where he used to shop on his way back. He would do the route himself to make sure everything was fine. A tiny voice in the back of his head told him he was overreacting, and that John was fine, probably just stopped somewhere for a coffee. If that was the case, then Sherlock would just pretend to be casually following him. There was a lot of advantages of being a strange man - people stop asking questions, for instance - they start to simply accept the weird facts instead.

He quickly scribbled a note and left it on the coffee table, with instructions for John to call him if he came home while Sherlock was out. Sherlock locked himself out of the flat. He walked in a fast pace, as fast as he could walk without making it look like he was stressed. He couldn't allow himself to looked stressed, he needed to take every precaution. He couldn't even allow himself to text or call John. He didn't know what he was up against yet. He was careful about making theories without a satisfying amount of observations, although he had a growing suspicion.

Sherlock had never told John, but John meant a lot to him. A lot more than he would even admit to himself. They shared a close bond - they understood each other, and fulfilled each other in a very unique, and for some, strange way. John's "idiotic" remarks somehow helped Sherlock solve cases. It was like they triggered new chains of thoughts in him - while Sherlock helped John to see how much more interesting and exciting life could be.

Sherlock had walked through the park where John usually enjoyed his daily walks. John was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock was determined to find him. The feeling that there was something seriously wrong grew inside of him. John had become more than just a friend to Sherlock, during the last year they had lived together. Sherlock had much knowledge about relationships, but he had no personal experience with it. In fact, it was like he almost didn't understand the term "relationship" when it came down to a personal, non-theoretical level. At least he could agree to the fact that they were more than just friends - if he didn't have to say it out loud, of course.

Sherlock finally reached the grocery shop. If John had finished his route, he would have met him by now. Sherlock picked up his phone, and typed a message:

"_Remember the milk. _

_-SH_"

He was almost certain he wouldn't get a text back. If he didn't it would indicate that _- Hold on_! Sherlock saw something lying on the ground. A black, leather wallet, almost invisible, peeking out from a deep crack in the pavement. He picked it up, and opened it. "_John Watson_". Sherlock swallowed heavily. He looked around him, searching for more clues. No signs of a struggle - clever - leaving no witnesses. No fingerprints on the left corner on the store window - John always supported himself to the same spot when he entered the store. So he didn't even make it through the door. The whole scene must have looked very voluntarily for the outside observer. Although a clever person like he was dealing with must have noticed John "accidentally" drop the wallet, but chosen to ignore it - to leave a message. Sherlock stood like this, for some seconds, adding details to his theory. His nostrils were tense, his eyes were narrowed. He snorted. It became very clear for him what he was dealing with.

Just as it dawned upon him, his phone rang.

"Please, help me. Pick me up. I don't know where I am." John was whispering. His voice was trembling, although Sherlock could hear he was pulling himself together.

"Tell me John, what do you see around you? Are you indoors?" Sherlock didn't allow himself to express emotions. He needed facts.

There was a long pause. He could hear John walking, _with a limp_? "I can see... I can see a huge maple tree right in front of the window. It blocks my view. But I-. But I think I am in some sort of institution. It's very quiet here. But I don't know if he's still in the building. Sherlock, I-"

Sherlock interrupted him. "Don't move. Stay there John." Sherlock hung up on him. He knew exactly where John was, and didn't take it for granted that no one was listening to their conversation.

_Someone wanted a show_.


	3. Chapter 3: Echoes from the Past

It had been easy, almost too easy, for Sherlock to figure out where John was. First of all, there weren't that many abandoned mental hospitals around, and only one of them had maples planted on the outdoors area. In fact it was a maple allée. It had long been obvious for him that it was Jim he was dealing with. _Who else_? Location, clues - everything had the rotten stench of Jim. But the fact that everything so far had been this simple made Sherlock a little bit uneasy. Why did Jim make it so easy for Sherlock to find John? Jim hadn't even confiscated John's phone. And the wallet - too big to just 'accidentally' drop on the ground without Jim noticing. Jim's need for Sherlock to find John was almost desperate. Too desperate. There was something more to this, of that he was certain. Sherlock feared what kind of state he would might find John in.

Sherlock found him in the corner of a room in that which once had been one of the hospital's Secure Units. Often, these units were located above ground floor, and often in the parts furthest away from the floor's main entrance. Sherlock had figured John had to be in one of these wards, considering Jim's twisted sense of humour. These rooms had once been inhabited with what they had called 'the criminally insane', which now is a no longer a legal, nor an appropriate term. John was sitting, facing the wall, leaning his head to the other wall of the corner - he didn't even turn around as Sherlock leaned into the room.

Sherlock was standing in the doorway. He looked over his shoulder, on the corridor behind him, before he entered the room, shutting the door behind him. Sherlock kneeled next to John. He carefully placed his hand on John's shoulder. "John?"

John didn't move. Sherlock could hear a almost undetectable whisper, like a low humming. Too low for him to separate the words from each other.

Sherlock didn't like the feel of this. Not at all. He frowned and swallowed heavily. He placed both his hands on John's shoulders and turned him around slowly.

John's eyes didn't meet Sherlock's. John stared out in the air with a vacant expression, as if he couldn't see Sherlock at all. His head was slightly tilted to the side. His lips were moving - but only barely. It was almost as if they tried to form words - but if it was an conscious act or not, Sherlock didn't know.

Sherlock's hand slid back to support John's neck. He swallowed a whimper, shaking John's shoulder gently. "John!"

John still didn't answer. He stared out in front of him, his lips still moving slowly as he whispered something not understandable.

It was not in Sherlock's nature to panic, but he desperately needed some kind of reaction from John. He raised his hand from John's shoulder slowly. He deepened his voice and shouted just as he repeatedly hit John on both his cheeks. "JOHN!"

John's eyes twitched and blinked vaguely as Sherlock had hit him.

Sherlock couldn't hold back a relieved smile. "Alright, so the devil drugged you. Now I need you to stay awake, John. Don't you dare fall asleep!"

Sherlock was honestly relieved. He had feared the worst. Jim was so unpredictable. The only visible signs of physical trauma were on John's wrists and hands, but that didn't necessarily mean that Jim hadn't managed to give John various kinds of severe ...damage. However, it seemed like John was drugged, only. But there are sneaky ways to harm one, without leaving cuts and bruises on the body. Now he needed to get John home, make sure he didn't fall asleep on their way back, and undress him in order to examine his body for additional damage. Sherlock wanted to do this on his own, and decided not to contact Lestrade for as long as he could afford it. Police means more rules. More restrictions.

But. The question now, first of all, was: _Who would John be when the drug's no longer in his body? _Would he still sit there, just staring out in the air? Would what he'd been through give him severe psychological trauma? Would he even be able to talk?

Every man has got his own, individual limits. And Sherlock had yet to know the whole story of what John had been through.


	4. Chapter 4: Newborn Flame

Sherlock had carried John in his arms until he found a dusty wheelchair in one of the many corridors of the abandoned hospital. _Less questions from the cabbie that's going to pick us up_, Sherlock thought. On their way out he imagined bumping into a self-satisfied Jim around every corner, but luckily, there had been no Jim in sight.

Mental hospitals aren't typically placed in the heart of a city, including this one. Sherlock could spot green fields and a park as they walked down the allée. He had called for a cab, which should be there in a few minutes. He had decided to stay completely rational and calm. At least until they both were back home.

When the cab pulled up to them, the cabbie first looked at John, before giving Sherlock curious look.

Sherlock nodded calmly. "My stepbrother's got a condition. With all due respect, I would appreciate it if you would stop staring, and helped us instead. " Acting had always been easy for Sherlock.

The cabbie looked down, embarrassed, before opening the door for them. "Of course, sir. Where are you heading."

Sherlock answered with a determined tone. "Baker Street."

As soon as the cabbie had left them off, Sherlock carried John back inside and placed him gently down on the bed, face up. He would blink his eyes when he heard a sudden, high sound, now . Sherlock could relax a bit more. This indicated that the drug was on its way out of the body. After all, he didn't know exactly when John got drugged. Imagine if it hadn't reached max effect when he found him at the hospital.

Now he needed to undress John in order to examine his body. That way he could also know which method Jim had used in order to drug John. If he'd used a syringe, there would be a needle mark. And depending on if it was an intravenous or intramuscular injection Sherlock could determine how long time it would take for the drug to wear off, more or less. Force-feeding a person tablets, however, doesn't normally leave any marks - even if it usually is a rather challenging task. Not to mention a gruesome and traumatic experience for the unlucky victim.

Sherlock gently pulled John's jumper over his head. No sign of any other bruises than on his wrists. No sign of any needles. He studied John's abdomen thoroughly. _Smooth and firm_. No sign of phlegmons, no swollenness.

He placed his hands gently on John's right side, palpating carefully. He just needed to be sure that the liver was fine. If John had been force-fed tablets, they could've been poisonous and/or unclean. If an injection had been poisonous he'd most likely not have been here now. But that depends on the toxin in both cases, of course. To palpate a person's liver hurts. It's supposed to hurt. But the early signs of poisoning sometimes appear in the liver, and that could make the palpating excruciating. The liver is also the 'head-organ' in charge of rinsing John's blood, concerning the drug. Luckily John showed no sign of excruciating pain, only a slight twitch in his left eye. Sherlock sighed relieved.

Sherlock decided to examine the rest of John's body as well, before turning him over to study his back. With nimble fingers he opened John's belt, and pulled his trousers down. Again, no sign of any needle, and no other bruises than on his ankles. _Restraints. That heartless bastard. Coward._

Sherlock spoke with a comforting voice. "Alright, John. I'm going to turn you around to examine your back, now. Looking good, John." He didn't know how much John was able to pick up, and to be frank he wasn't sure which of the two alternatives he hoped for. After all, it was pretty clear that John had been through at least one, but probably a series of traumatic experiences.

Sherlock had a firm grip of John's hip and shoulder as he turned him over in bed. There was no significant bruising on John's back either, except for a pretty colourful one on the back of his neck. Sherlock swallowed. He could see where this were going. Restraints - judging from the bruises, he had been lying on his stomach, and someone had held down his neck with a pretty forceful grip. Sherlock could even see the finger marks. This wasn't promising. Sherlock's eyes stopped at John's boxers. He needed to check every inch of his body. It's procedure. He swallowed again.

His fingers had just gotten a grip of the waistline. He stopped. This wasn't like him. Why did he stop? Usually he would've examined him with professional cynicism, without a second's thought.

_Pull yourself together. Continue. _

He pulled down John's boxers slowly. Then he could see it. His eyes narrowed, his nostrils widened. He could feel a slight twitch in his left eye. _Bruises. Almost pitch black bruises_.

As if he'd burnt his fingers, he let go of the boxers. Sherlock didn't know what to feel or what to think. Without noticing it, a small snarling-like sound escaped his lips.

Suddenly, an almost inaudible whimper came from the bed in front of him. John tried his best to move his arm. His voice was trembling and unclear. The message, however, was not. "Shh-. Shherlock."

Sherlock instantly leant forward to take his hand. "Shhh. I'm here John. I am here for you. You can relax now."

Sherlock smiled, his eyes were wet of relief.

_Hope. There is hope_.


	5. Chapter 5: New Beginnings

John's condition steadily got better. Within the next few hours he were able to have a normal, but however a little slow, conversation. Sherlock had helped him up in a sitting position in the bed, supported by pillows. John didn't seem to feel much pain yet, but Sherlock was sure that as soon as the drug was completely out of his body, it would be more than just a little bit uncomfortable, to put it mildly.

Sherlock kneeled down by John's bedside. "John. What do you remember?"

John looked at him and frowned, as if he was thinking hard. "Not much. I think I was drugged twice."

Sherlock nodded silently. "First you must rest. I shouldn't be asking you questions when you're in this state." Sherlock was on his way up when John grabbed his arm and held him back. Sherlock looked at him, confused.

His voice was slow and sore. "Please don't go."

"I was only getting up to make us a cup of tea."

John nodded contently and smiled. "You make awful tea."

"What?" Sherlock was surprised over John's sudden reaction. He just didn't expect such honesty from the understanding and gentle John. Well, it could be the drug.

John chuckled. "You get lost in thought, and then you leave the tea for too long, before taking out the bag."

Sherlock smiled. "You're a hard man to please, John. Coffee, then."

"I'll just lie here... Watching you as you leave the room..." John said tenderly.

Sherlock frowned slightly at the comment, and nodded before he walked out of the bedroom. He was still taking in John's peculiar mood. It was clear to him that Jim had most likely used an old-fashioned anaesthetic on John - judging by the way it was leaving John's body. But this still didn't quite explain his behaviour. Maybe there was more to it? Well. He would simply have to observe John.

Sherlock walked back into the bedroom with two mugs of coffee in his hands. John had slid under the blankets, and seemed to be quite pleased, judging by the grin on his face. "Alright. You are obviously thinking about something."

John's grin widened. "Yeeees." He patted the bed, suggesting Sherlock should sit down.

Sherlock pretended not to be bothered as he sat down next to John. He sensed some sort of tension he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"Sherlock..? Why did you place me in _your_ bed?" John had a playful undertone.

"What do you mean 'in _my_ bed'? Yours is one floor up, and obviously not as close to the living room or the kitchen as this one. Don't you see that this is the more convenient choice?" Sherlock had managed to recognize the, to him, rather unfamiliar tension. He hoped this conversation wasn't going to go in the direction he feared it would might go.

John's hand found Sherlock's. He tugged at it, trying to pull Sherlock closer. "Convenient for some things I could mention..."

Sherlock quickly pulled away his hand, and got up from the bed. "Wait. I'll just go get my penlight. Are you feeling well, John?" Sherlock was almost sure. It had to be the drug. Or drugs.

"I feel good. _Very_ good." John tried reaching after Sherlock. "No. Don't go-"

It only took Sherlock a few seconds to get back with the penlight, to John's relief. Sherlock pulled back John's eyelid's, one at a time, looking for any kind of pupillary abnormalities, or other signs of head injury. "Hm. Do you feel nauseas? Do you feel any pressure, any headache, pulsating feeling or...?" At least there was no sign of _physical_ head injury.

"I can feel something else pressing, and pulsating." John pressed his thighs together and looked at Sherlock again, with the same playful look.

Sherlock frowned. "What?" This was going in the completely wrong direction. "Stop it John, you're embarrassing yourself. It's safe for you to sleep now. The drug's wearing off. You should do that. If you can remember this conversation when you wake up, you're going to regret having it."

"But you won't?"

"Shut up." Sherlock turned away so John couldn't see the fact that he was smirking. Sherlock was surprised over his own reaction, himself.

_Sherlock didn't feel bothered about John's indirect suggestion at all - he felt smug. _


	6. Chapter 6: Together We Are Strong

It was evening in 221B Baker Street. John had been sleeping for the last few hours, to Sherlock's relief. To be fair, Sherlock didn't feel well himself. Something was happening to him - something he hadn't experienced before. He felt physically uncomfortable; dizzy and nauseas. It was as if something inside him was growing, taking up space, almost making him lose his balance. He had an idea of what this might could be, but he prayed for it to be something else, although he was almost sure that he was right.

Despite not being a natural "people-person", Sherlock knew people. He knew what people think like, act like, he knew about every normal and abnormal emotional, physical and psychosomatic reaction. Theoretically speaking, of course. Not sympathetically. He had always managed to keep his emotions under control, even if he knew what this can do to a person. To others he would perhaps seem like an insensitive, cold and calculating person - but he knew deep inside that he was far from emotionless, although he wished he was.

It is common knowledge that one can only keep a lid on one's emotions for a limited amount of time. Humans are supposed to have feelings. We are supposed to share them, show them and talk about them. If not, things can go terribly wrong. Sherlock had always hoped that he was made of something else than most people - hoping these rules wouldn't count for him. He had all his time felt so different from other people - and most people would probably agree that he was. Unfortunately for Sherlock, he was a human being nonetheless. Suppressed emotions always find some way to penetrate through one's defences, as it was this he feared the most. All his life he'd walked around thinking too much about riddles, cases, victims and criminals - without taking the time to sit down and simply feel and think about his life. _Could it be that he himself had happened to grow a little more fond of his friend and flatmate, than he would normally ever allow himself to do? _

Sherlock watched John sleep. He looked so peaceful. Sherlock had been sitting silently in the same position on the edge of the bed for almost three hours now . Sleep is essential when it comes to both psychosis and delusions - like the delusion John had obviously been suffering from. Sherlock therefore decided he didn't want to move an inch if that would make John wake up. However, this was starting to become a pretty hard task. Sherlock hadn't slept for two days, now. He had just finished a case where he hadn't allowed himself to sleep, just before John disappeared. He wondered for a second if he should take a nap on the sofa, but he couldn't. _Imagine if something happened to John in his sleep_. He had to be there.

He looked at the bed. It was so tempting and inviting. Slowly, tryingly, Sherlock lied down, on the opposite side of John. John grunted and turned around in bed, but didn't seem to be bothered in any way. Sherlock allowed himself to relax a bit more. He exhaled slowly. Feeling the soft mattress against his back after two days of no sleep was almost too good to be true. A content sigh escaped his lips as he started to drift off into his sleep.

When he woke up again, it was still dark. Only, it wasn't morning, it was evening again.

John was poking him. "Sherlock. Sherlock?"

"Yes?" Sherlock answered slowly.

"Why are you lying here. Or... Why am I lying here? In your bed?"

Sherlock answered calmly. "Relax. Give it a couple of minutes. You're confused. It will come back to you." He paused. "Don't you even remember anything from last night?"

John looked at him, surprised. "Did we-?"

Sherlock frowned. "No. No!" Sherlock chuckled. "That's poor reasoning!"

John blushed slightly. "It's just... It hurts."

Sherlock nodded as if he just remembered. "Ah. Yes. Sorry, I would've offered you painkillers, but I can't. For your body's sake. You've been stuffed with anaesthetics and God knows what else. Your body, and your liver in particular, needs to rest. Even if it hurts." Sherlock rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

John looked confused. "Anaesthetics?" He looked down. "Look, I didn't mean to imply that you'd-"

Sherlock cut him off. "I know. I'm just saying, yes it hurts, but you're unfortunately going to have to deal with that. I'm going to give you the time to remember what happened. That's for the best right now."

"But I am naked. Almost. And you were lying next to me, and I... I don't understand."

Sherlock frowned. "Oh. Almost forgot about that part." Sherlock leaned over to the bed frame to get his dressing gown, and threw it over to John. "There. I had to examine you. Sorry. What about the hospital? That's where I found you."

John's cheeks went from light pink to red by the thought of Sherlock, his own flatmate, undressing him. Of course he understood why, but it still felt strange. He almost felt... _shy_? He silently took Sherlock's dressing gown and put it on. He was thinking about Sherlock's question as the memories slowly dawned upon him. "Yes. I remember the hospital. I remember... Jim. He was-." John didn't finish the sentence. His face went from a healthy glow to milky white in less than a few seconds.

"That's alright. I know." Sherlock said, comforting.

"I can remember calling you. And... after that everything went black." John's voice was trembling.

"I figured as much. Look, I can see that this is obviously hard for you. I think it's wise of us to not push it. Let the memories come to you instead." Sherlock got out of the bed and stood by the side of the bed, straightening his shirt.

John studied Sherlock's steady figure from behind. "So... What happens now? What are we going to do?"

"We are going to be clever." Sherlock brushed his shirt, before he suddenly stopped, and turned around. "Sorry. Too used to run off on my own. What do you want us to do?"

"I don't know. I mean, I don't really know Jim. I don't know what he expects from us. And whatever that is, we should not do that."

Sherlock smiled proudly. "Good. An act of revenge is out of the question. And I know you well enough to know that that's not what you want either. But until you get better, I suggest that we'll lie low. And don't trust anyone but yourself. Jim's got his eyes and ears everywhere."

John nodded silently. He was partly thinking of what Sherlock just said, and partly dealing with all the new impressions and memories that were slowly eating their way into him.

"...And you need to take it easy. What you feel now is nothing compared to what it will be." Sherlock said, being a little bit too honest. He smiled. " I'll put the kettle on." Sherlock walked towards the door, but stopped right in front of it. He didn't turn around. "You are strong, John. And I-. I am proud of you." Sherlock waited a few seconds before he disappeared through the door, without shutting it completely.

John was left speechless on the bed. _Sherlock had given him an honest compliment? He had tried to comfort him!_ John tucked himself in bed again and stared up at the ceiling with a touched smile on his face. He couldn't remember if Sherlock had ever said anything like this to him before - or to anyone. He leant his head on his shoulder, feeling the soft fabric of the dressing gown. It smelt like him. He felt safe.

A tall shadow was standing in the doorway, just out of John's sight. Sherlock had observed the whole scene.

Sherlock smiled to himself before his lean figure silently walked back into the kitchen. He felt relieved_. Interesting one, that man_.


End file.
